Classes in English

I am preparing to study abroad.

And it is weird.


I do not speak Spanish, and the more people ask me, "Well how are you going to communicate?" the more I get scared, despite assuring them that I am a proud graduate from the "Marcel Marceau School Of Language" and give them a winning smile.

What do I pack?

I heard once that in Spain it's considered rude to overuse the article "I."

What's the Spanish word for "faux pas?"

I do like their olives though.

Schadenfreude.

In the musical Avenue Q, an adult parody of Sesame Street, there's a song called "Schadenfreude," which explains the word's definition and lists occasions when one might feel it.

One of lyrics(besides "ain't it fun to watch figure skaters falling on their asses?") asks "don't you feel all warm and cozy watching people out in the rain?"

Yes. Yes I do.

Suckers.

Shakespearean Rooms

In my last Shakespeare class of the semester, Professor Mallette mentioned how when there was a scene in a bedroom, it was almost always a woman's domain.

It made me wonder, if you wandered around campus, or your own home, which rooms are masculine and which are feminine?

My room at school is female.
My room at home is male.
The library is female.
The chapel is female.


...I'm struggling to find something that I think is male. Maybe the science buildings? or is that stereotypical?

ZOMBIES!

Again, I know our apocalyptic unit is over, but I'm still fascinated by it. Also, my friend has been addicted to L4D (Left 4 Dead) so I decided to see what it was all about. And by that, I mean I went to it's wikipedia page.

It's a first-person shooter game in a post-apocalyptic zombie world.

My cup of tea.

Upon reading, I found this quote from a creator that relates to our discussion on the change of the source of zombie-ism, from mystic witchcraft to potent virus:

"Even though we obviously pushed well beyond the realm of believability with many of our "boss" infected, the core idea of a mind-destroying, civilization-collapsing pathogen is more horrifying to me than magically animated corpses, precisely because it is plausible. Rabies is a good example of a pathogen that can turn a loyal, friendly, protective family pet into a slavering attack machine. It's a virus that reprograms the behaviors of a complex animal – a mammal, in fact. What if something similar happened to humans? Left 4 Dead is one possible answer."

-Mike Booth

I am fascinated by zombies. I don't watch many horror movies at all, but if there are zombies, I'm always down. Weird.

males and females

This isn't necessarily environmental but I thought of the "male/female" dichotomy and their connotations at work today.

I am the properties master at the theater, however I spent two years on shop crew. I know my way around jig saws, chop saws, screw guns, squares, and levels. This year, shop crew is full of male newbies who are unaware of my history.

I was taking down a curtain that I had made of burlap stapled in pleats to a plank of wood. It was hanging in a very tricky spot between two walls, with about three inches of work space. I had taken out all the screws when one of them wouldn't come out of the plank of wood, jamming it between the two walls. I struggled with it for less than a minute when one of the boys came over and asked if I needed assistance. I didn't want to be rude, so I explained the problem with the screw and offered him the screw gun. Instead, he seized the plank of wood and yanked it downward, snapping the screw and freeing the curtain. "Or....there's....that.....okay..." I said as he handed me the 1x4, smirking.

I realize he was just being nice and trying to help, but every time I'm working on something in the shop, all of those boys fly to my rescue, even when I don't need it. However, I had a male coworker who was struggling with trimming the top of a plastic bucket. He tried multiple tools, and no one in the shop offered to help.

I'm not upset, and I'm not going to be indignant. I can't help but smile when they insist on "helping" me, even though I've spent more time around the theater power tools than they have.

prom

my friends and I took our prom pictures in weird places instead of the conservatory koi pond or the rose gardens or the new gazebo in the park.

we settled on a construction site across from a cemetery....

territory

It's funny to watch the athletes practicing in the field outside of Hixon come in to use the bathroom. Their faces convey confusion, curiosity, hesitance, submission, and a little panic. They never know where to go, and I don't blame them: the theater has a confusing lay out. There are always strange things being built, loud scary noises, and a ton of traffic on paths that are far too narrow to accommodate them. I confess, we tend to give people we don't recognize looks that say, "What are you doing here?" if they don't state their business immediately. People stop and look up from their work, as if we were a colony of meerkats standing on our hind legs and staring at an intruder. They say a few words about a bathroom, and we all point. Maybe someone will say, "Down that hallway." They think that when they leave we'll talk about them, and sometimes we do.

We are all animals, no matter what we build or create or teach ourselves.

Experiments In Where The Heart Is

What is it about not being at home that just makes you exhausted?

I spent the entire weekend in places I didn't technically live. The first was a friends apartment downtown and the second was a friend's home with her family. When I finally got back to my room on tonight, I felt this strange sense of relief despite my return meaning a return to homework that needed doing, calls that needed to be made, and a mountain of laundry.

The contrast between the two homes I stayed in this weekend was interesting. Normally, I would feel much more comfortable in an environment that belonged entirely to my friend, but this time, I loved being with my other friend's family. And not just because her golden retriever/cocker spaniel mix looked exactly like the dog I grew up with. It felt happy and comfortable, where my high school friend's apartment was mismatched and frankly kind of filthy. I struggled not to tell her how to keep her dog under control when it climbed all over her. No one likes a Captain Bossy Boots.

I kept wondering what it was about being with my other friend's family that made me feel so much happier. Normally I'm worried about looking like a suitable friend to the parents, but watching Law and Order with her mom while we made snarky comments made me feel like I'd actually been home.

This weekend was an interesting experimentation in what constitutes a home.

Alabaster Windows

It's not that religion hasn't come up before in class, but all of our discussions about the apocalypse made me think of my brief encounters with my own concept of faith. Religion is often connected to place, and while I've always felt pseudo-Kierkegaardian and agnostic about my own, this cathedral in Orvieto, Italy, is truly the only place I can say Christianity made sense to me.

And then we left. I've always wondered what it was that made me feel that way for less than ten seconds.

Smoke Not On The Water

Today I went downtown to pick up my Spanish visa for next semester, and when leaving Ogilvie, the strangest thing happened.

Our train passed through a huge, impossibly thick cloud of smoke. I looked around frantically for the source, assuming that a building had to be burning to give off that amount of smoke. No one else seemed to notice it. After ten seconds, we were completely clear of it.

It was then that I realized I had been trying desperately to smell it, as if to prove its existence.

Crows

This morning, my alarm clock is not what woke me. It was the cawing of a murder of crows in the trees outside my window. I expected to wake up in my own bed at home, where crows like to perch in the oak tree that shades the entirety of our front lawn.

A line from Lady Macbeth popped into my head as I sat up:

"The raven himself is hoarse
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan
Under my battlements."

Macbeth, Act One, Scene Five

I sure hope the king of Scotland keeps his distance from Harlan.

That's Not The Milk Carton...

Today I was talking with a friend about how the weather this weekend was giving us good parts of two sensory worlds. We got to smell the decaying leaves and stomp them with that satisfying crackle, while wearing sandals and for once, not bitterly cursing the November breeze that lifted our hair from our shoulders.

Though I was reminded of the strange sensory experience of expecting one thing and getting another. On friday, when I left my building wearing a pea coat, I tightened my stomach muscles and held my breath, braced for cold. Five seconds without shock left me in a kind of daze. It didn't seem right, and for a moment it was as though I had been violently awakened from a realistic dream. I thought of the time I reached into the fridge and drank from what I thought was a carton of milk, but turned out to be orange juice. I spat it all over my kitchen, for no other reason than surprise.

Certain sensations always seem to belong to certain landscapes. When they switch themselves around, an experience that is ordinarily pleasant turns alien and maybe even unwelcome. Like when you work so hard on your snow fort that you have to take off your coat because you're overheating inside it. Patches of ice are totally unwelcome when unexpected, as are breezes, sunshine, and animals. They hypnotize us momentarily.

It's human to crave predictability in our surroundings.

where are you from?

I have a friend at home who likes to get a rise out of people. This is a girl who, working her job at the public library, loudly announced to a coworker that she thought Nelson Mandela was overrated and it doesn't take that much effort to sit in jail for 30 years.

One of her favorite tricks is answering "American" to any inquiries of her heritage. Conversations usually go like this:

"Where are you from?"
"I'm American."
"Oh, no. I mean what's your nationality?"
"American."
"Like...your heritage?"
"American."
"Oh. Like Native American?"
"No, just American."
"That's not what I mean! Where is your family from?"
"America."

It's funny to watch people who don't know better try to fight with her, but more intriguing is that people have such an angry reaction to her completely honest answer. What is it about our distant heritage that we Americans, normally so proud of our nationalities, must identify within ourselves?

...if you were wondering, mine is German, Scottish, Norwegian, Swedish, Czech, and Magyar.

Imprinting

I only watch ghost hunting shows to scoff at them. Not three minutes ago, I snorted at the mention of a machine that "scientifically measures human emotional states." The word "scientific" automatically validates almost anything. I swear I could sell a Unicorn Detector if I slapped that word on the box.

Then I heard the explanation of a theory that made me think of our class. It's called "imprinting" or "place memory," a theory that proposes extreme emotions (rage, terror) can embed themselves in the environment where they occurred.

I have always been very honest about the fact that I don't believe in ghosts. There's just no room for them in my concept of this planet. Still, I was intrigued by the theory of imprinting, and whether or not a place carries with it the events that occur within it. It almost knocks the first word off of the saying, "If these walls could talk."

I went to Italy with my senior Humanities class in high school, and as we went through Plaza San Marco, The Pantheon, The Vatican, and the Coliseum, I was flooded with thoughts of what had happened there. Who had died, what decisions had been made, whose paths had crossed. Thoughts like those, not ghosts, are what give me chills.

Harmonious/Hostile Environment

Harmonious
His voice is cool and even, the curve of his lips making his smile audible. His words tumble easily from his mouth as his long fingers travel across the board. He nudges one slider up, and with his thumb on the same hand, switches off the input from the automation. With a deft hand, he removes a CD from its plastic pocket, reaches behind himself, and slips it into the player, pausing it before it even begins. He switches off the microphone with one hand, and switches to a new input with the other. As he moves away from the microphone, he removes the headphones with an almost feline fluidity. Music fills the room and he takes serene strides across the room, rolling open a drawer and replacing an old CD. He closes the drawer and opens the one directly beside it, the drawers moving like counterbalances inside a clock. There is a moment of consideration, and he plucks a new selection from thousands, and returns to his chair, avoiding the wires and cables that hang like jungle vines from every counter.

Hostile
He stutters into the microphone as his fingertip slips off the large yellow "OFF" button. He turns his head to see what had gone wrong, and hears a tumbling and grating noise. He has knocked the microphone away with the bulky headphones. He grabs at it, bringing it back to his face. This time he watches his mischievous hands and makes nervous adjustments to the sliding controls, tweaking dials that don't matter. He pushes a heavy switch and there is a thudding click, but no music. Two seconds of silence drag by as he fumbles for the off switch of the microphone. The music cuts in awkwardly, on an upbeat with the singer in the middle of a word. He rolls back in his chair to pick up the case of a CD he just finished playing, dragging the input cord with him. Again, silence. He stands, seizing the end of the cord and jamming it back into the computer, which nearly knocks it off the stool it had been perched on. When everything has been set aright, he freezes for a moment, waiting for something else to fall out of place.

Home

I found this website featuring homes built from mud and lime, and I think they're absolutely beautiful.

I would love to live in any of these homes.

Feather Feet

If there's anything in nature that can always make my breath catch in my throat, no matter the circumstance, it is a Friesian. In elementary school, I used to plaster my folders and notebooks with pictures of them.
I've always been drawn to draft horses. I was the only one of all my friends that would approach the Percherons in the large animal barn at the state fair. They have hooves like dinner plates, but they are some of the most gentle, docile horses you will ever meet.

Poetic Confession

Maybe this isn't wise for me to write somewhere that I know my teacher will read it, but I have a confession:

I dislike writing poetry.

It feels like an article of clothing that doesn't ever fit me right. The fit always changes: one day it might be a skirt that has too much static cling, another day it's pants where the hems are way too short. Metaphor aside, there's always something that feels uncomfortable.

I write it when people ask it of me, but it never really feels like it belongs to me. I feel like I'm faking it. It's a sensation I've never been able to shake.

Where do the line breaks go?
Search me.
When do you start a new stanza?
Hell if I know.

It's such an ambiguous art, I think it's safe to say it's the one that scares me the most. I enjoy it. I like to read it. I can write about it, analyze it, but I just CANNOT write it. If you told me to either replicate Starry Night brushstroke for brushstroke or write a poem about it, I'd probably opt for the former.

This is kind of embarrassing to admit as a writing major.

Worldcore

I really like this picture. I think it kind of suggests a symbiotic relationship on multiple levels, including between humans and nature.

The World Without Us

I found this interactive website about the progression of nature after humans completely vanish. It relates really well to the poetry readings for today, especially "what the ants are saying."

The fact that most caught my attention was that after 10,200,000 years, bronze sculpture would still be recognizable.

Predators

I was just watching discovery's MEGA BEASTS show, with some decent CGI of a giant, ostrich-like bird taking down prehistoric horses, not expecting to get a blog entry out of it at all, simply enjoying it for the mindless violence, when I was struck by the show's conclusion.

The narrator talked about how, despite being a fearsome predator, the "Terror Bird" went extinct. "The most dangerous predator on two legs is no longer a bird." and it showed a cityscape with hundreds of people walking in the street.

"For now," continued the narrator, "We rule the earth." I snorted and was about to comment on the vanity of the final line, when I heard the narrator repeat, "For now."

The way he was speaking, you could tell he was smiling.

music from a tree

I found this video the other day, and I thought it was incredibly relevant to our discussions in class about the tree being the symbol of nature. However, this tree's song is a little different from what Walt Whitman must have been imagining....

Natural Irony

Awhile ago, I bought Pantene Nature Fusion Shampoo. I confess, I bought into the idea of "natural" products being the healthiest thing for one's hair. This is what the back of the bottle said:

"A first for a Pantene shampoo—scientists used Pantene Pro-V Science to unlock the power of cassia essence to help give your hair strength* and natural radiance. This amazing fusion helps make fragile hair strong against damage in just 14 days. Try the shampoo and conditioner system for damage protection leading salon brands can't beat."

I was kind of surprised when I was standing in the shower, reading the fine print, and nowhere did it say anything about being biodegradable. I felt kind of guilty about my brand loyalty.

Thoughts from walking to the train station...

-As I admired the lush, healthy looking hostas bordering the sidewalk of one residence in Lake Forest, the situation struck me as kind of bitterly ironic. The person who takes care of those hostas, waters them fertilizes them, gives them appropriate amounts of sun, doesn't get to enjoy them or really take credit for them, seeing as most of the homes in Lake Forest have a team of landscapers on their lawns with a comb and scissors, ensuring that every blade of grass is more even than a Navy man's crew cut.

-There is a hazy fog hanging in the air, operating almost like an aperture, and separating each individual ray of light. Combined with the old, thick foliage of the Lake Forest trees, I feel as though I'm on a movie set. I briefly wonder if the fog is pollution.

-Crows bob through the grass in the park, pecking randomly at the ground. One flies up in front of me and lands thirty feet away. As he exacts his quick descent using his tail as a rudder, I am reminded of my dad telling me how to tell the difference between crows and ravens. A crows tail is rounded like a fan, whereas the tail of a raven comes to a tapered point. I'm grateful to share my dad's enthusiasm for learning.

(I suppose it's technically Friday, but I had a field trip.)

I hear they're chewy anyway....

My roommate was flipping through the channels on TV, and for a brief moment, a turtle flickered across our screen. I grinned slightly as I thought back to the weekend before I came back to school.

My close friend from high school had invited me up to her cabin for the weekend, saying that a bunch of family friends were going to be there, and it was going to be one big party. Her parents had invited one friend up, Sarah invited me, and her older brother, freshly graduated from college, had five friends up with him.

I was anticipating a weekend of drunken stupidity with those kinds of numbers.

What I did not anticipate, however, was my morals being put so firmly to the test. (Not like that.)

One morning, they all decided that we were going to go floating down the river. This sounded leisurely and fun, and I was amused to see that all the boys had fashioned spears out of sticks they found in the woods. They planned to use them to spear fish, which I knew would never be fruitful. After about ten minutes on the river, barely steering our pair of lashed-together row boats, the boys realized this too. They had, unfortunately, also brought landing nets, and logs on the banks of the river were perfect sunning spots for multitudes of painted turtles.

Now the first few attempts failed miserably, which wasn't a huge surprise, judging by the amount of empty Old Milwaukee cans that lined the bottom of either boat (I have never seen so much alcohol consumed in so short a time by so few people). But then they started actually catching the turtles, the poor, drowsy things. They caught at least three and were holding them in the boat's live-well when one of them mentioned seeing an episode of Survivor Man where the host killed and ate a turtle. I was horrified because I knew these boys were just drunk enough to get enthusiastic about the idea. Then one of them countered, "Hey man, if you kill it and cook it, I will eat it."

That was the point of no return. A line had been drawn in the sand and the challenge had to be met. No turtles were safe.

My seat on the boat was the panel that flipped up to reveal the live-well. I could hear the turtles clawing madly at the metal interior, and my heart continued to sink. This was funny to the boys, but to me it was animal cruelty. Because my perch was on top of the well, it was my duty to remove the captive turtles from the landing nets and place them inside. The tank was starting to get crowded, and at one point, with a turtle in either hand, I hesitated. While I was considering the repercussions of tossing them overboard to safety, one of the boys noticed my hesitancy. "What are you doing, Adrienne?"

"SHE'S GONNA LET THEM GO!" Shouted one, and soon I was surrounded by the bellowing of half a dozen males who were about twenty sheets to the wind. Fearing drunken mutiny, I put all of the turtles in captivity, whispering apologies to all of them.

I was actually taken quite aback when my friend joined the planning about how best to kill and cook the turtles. I felt personally attacked when she told me to lighten up, they were just turtles.

"Turtles that would haunt me forever if I let them die." I thought to myself.

For the rest of the trip I made unnecessary noise and splashed excessively to warn turtles of our coming, but eventually I resigned myself to passive onlooker, guilt crushing my ability to have any sort of fun. All in all, they caught seven turtles, and brought them all back to the cabin.

The boys sat around for awhile talking about where they would cook them, on what, how to kill them, with what knife. I couldn't stand the conversation and agitation bubbled up in my belly. I got up without saying anything and went outside to be by myself.

The row boat, still containing the captive turtles, was right in front of me. It was now or never.

What do I really care about? The opinion of some drunk frat boys who I don't really get along with anyway, or coming to the rescue of animals that really need me?

I took the turtles by twos to a nice reedy section of the shore and pushed them into the lake, apologizing out loud to all of them for the bad day and the change of residence.

I got crap for the rest of the night, and earned myself the nickname Peta. I shrugged and smiled, happy to be a kill-joy instead of a kill-turtle.

Secrets

I love postsecret, if only because it creates anonymous emotional connections between strangers who really need to feel those connections.





I'm always surprised how much I have in common with people I've never met.

Combining External & Internal

The brush underfoot is tender and soft, and I don't regret wearing open-toed shoes. I push deeper into the woods, not really satisfied with how far I've gotten before I'm stopped by a steep slope down into a ravine. I'm not really dressed for an adventure in the woods, so I settle on a lush looking bank that is entirely carpeted in velvety moss. I reach out to touch a log, which is deceptively soft and mushy, and crumbles under my touch. I hear something pelting through the leaves of the canopy and a piece of bark strikes me on the back of my neck. This wood seems especially enthusiastic about touching you back. A small fly crawls across my knuckles, and, panicked, I scoop a daddy long legs off of his intended path down my shirt.

I hear the wind hiss through the trees. It crescendos until I see it bending the plants in front of me, and feel it stirring the hair around my face. My hair tickles the backs of my arms as it's blown around by the wind, and I am reminded of the substantial amount of hair that I possess.

People are always reminding me of this.

Sometimes I feel like I can relate who pregnant women who have strange people come up and rub their bellies, as if their large tummy somehow extends a privilege to anyone who wants to touch it. Similarly, I have large numbers of people approach me and grab a fistful of my hair, commenting on it's length or thickness. Many times I have to remind them that it is still attached to my head, and if I'm annoyed enough, I'll hold onto a bunch of their hair as well.

Much to the horror of my mother, I occasionally threaten to cut it all off. People call me Rapunzel, Lady Godiva, and make references to mermaids. I always like to receive a compliment, but over time, I start to feel as though I am being identified solely by my hair. Sometimes I feel as though it has taken on a life of it's own (tangle and maintenance jokes aside) and it exists separately from me, despite being attached to my head. It has a beauty that is not mine, that does not belong to me. At the risk of sounding vain, I would prefer to be a pretty girl than a girl attached to something pretty.

Looney Loons

I truly think that a loon's call is one of the prettiest sounds in nature. Whenever I hear them I stop and listen.

I don't think very many people agree with me.

"It is a very wild sound, quite in keeping with the place and the circumstances of the traveller, and very unlike the voice of a bird. I could lie awakefor hours listening to it, it is so thrilling."

-Thoreau

Okay, well, maybe some people.

Where does he get all those marvelous toys?

Whenever I'm walking at night, and there's a full moon with banks of clouds below it, Danny Elfman's theme from the 1989 Batman movie comes into my head.



I'm pretty sure it's because of the part where the Batwing pauses for a moment in front of the full moon before tumbling back to the earth....

A Female Deer.....

This evening, I was leaving my job at the theater and walking down the path along Sheridan to middle campus when something took me by surprise. I was mostly focused on how filthy my hands were and how repulsed I was at grit that I could feel on my teeth. I had been cleaning in the props basement for two hours, and had my mind set on a shower when I happened to glance to my left, at the path to Rosemary House.

I was embarrassed at how loudly I gasped.

Barely four feet from me was the boxy black nose of a doe. She looked at me curiously with wet eyes, her long, slender neck extended to sniff the air. I had seen deer before, but she seemed strangely unafraid of me. I was surprised to see how mangy and shabby her fur was. She looked slightly battered. She was actually rather intimidating up close, and I somehow felt that she would tower over me, should she come any closer. Peering out from between her legs was a spotted fawn. It stood bow-legged and, unlike its mother, had a fur coat with a beautiful sheen.

I remembered the camera I had in my bag, from taking inventory of all the props in the theater. I went to take it out, but my bag had a velcro closure, and the ripping sound proved to be too much noise for the pair. They took a few elegant, loping strides into the bushes. I realized I had made kind of a scene, between gasping loudly and stopping suddenly, and some of the other students on the path were looking at me strangely.

I watched from the crosswalk as cars stopped for the pair to gallop frantically across the road and vanish into a fenced yard.

Thick/Thin Descriptions

Shooting Star Savanna

Thin:

The grass is flat in patches, with random clumps shooting up together. There are large logs in various stages of rot strewn about. Most of the trees don't have branches until the upper fourth of their trunks. There is a woodpecker knocking on a piece of bark. The cold breeze isn't consistent enough to completely chill your skin. Chickadees call to each other, and somewhere closer a red squirrel chirps angrily. The ground sinks under very little pressure. An engine starts, a car door slams, a truck's back up warning beep carries on the breeze, and an airplane passes overhead. A saw or power tool echoes from far away. There is a plant by my foot that looks like it could might be mint. A bee hovers around it making me wonder even more. It's leaves are furry and instead of mint it smells like a cross between basil and rosemary, but less sweet. There are large stalks of wild daises that have dark yellow centers with pale yellow petals. Most of them have lost their blooms, leaving only the conical center at the top. Some of them, blown by the wind, lean over at angles it seems they will never recover from.

Thick:

The way the grass sticks up in patches reminds me of the way my dog's fur sticks out oddly after he's jumped into a lake and shook off. The sections of logs that seem to have been hurled randomly into the field remind me of the artificiality of this place. Their ends are all flat, showing that they've been cut from their trees with man-made tools. The paths have clearly been mowed into the tall stalks of wildflowers. Natural sounds are nearly overwhelmed by the sounds of industry: I only hear the woodpecker after a car engine roars to life and pulls away; chickadees calling to each other and a scolding red squirrel are swallowed up briefly by the sound of an airplane passing over. Then I see a plant that might be wild mint, and I grow hopeful for the "restored savanna." Its leaves are slightly jagged but rounded, though it doesn't have the purple-black stalk. I rub my fingers on it and smell the oil that has rubbed off on my fingers. It's not mint, but I would use it in cooking. I immediately grant the savanna some kind of legitimacy for producing something worth foraging without human assistance.

Middle Campus Quad

Thin:

Cicadas are sounding off everywhere. Birds are conspicuously absent. Crickets chirp in a wide range of pitches and tempos. A bumblebee drones by. There is a large tree stump at an intersection of sidewalk. An air-conditioning unit shuts off, revealing crows cawing in the distance. A landscaper in a day-glo vest rumbles by on a moaning machine. The grass is mostly green, but dying in small clumps. There are still visible imprints from bodies laying in the grass days ago. The sun is bright and the sky is a deep blue, fading to a paler color as it falls to the horizon. Two girls are walking by slowly and one stops suddenly, crying out and shaking her head as she waves her hands in front of her face. After a moment, she and the other girl continue to walk. Students lounging on the grass laugh and fall over at something one of them has said. Behind them is the chapel, looking old and academic except for the fire escape. A ladybug on the grass in front of me tries to take off for the third time and fails. It fans its wings as it climbs the blade of grass once more. A squirrel dashes in front of me, about two feet from where I sit. It charges up the tree and there is rustling in the branches as something thumps the ground close to me.

Thick

As I settle down on the grass with my notebook, I notice that between the extremely vocal crickets, the oppressive sounds of the cicadas, and the conspicuous absence of birdsong, I could probably be convinced that it was nighttime if I had my eyes closed. A bumblebee drones lazily by my face, and I'm reminded of the time that my roommate was floored by my ability to tell the difference between bumblebees, honey bees, wasps, and hornets. I thought it was something that most other people could do as well. Apparently not. I am forever the zoology/botany consultant of my friends.

An air conditioner that I didn't realize had been running shuts off, exposing the distressing caws of a murder of crows. A girl nearby panics as she collides with a bug, and for a moment I imagine her being in the bug's path, instead of the other way around. Laughter explodes from across the lawn; There's a group of lounging students laying on the grass, clutching at their sides and gasping for breath. Their peals of laughter echo off of the chapel behind them, and I think that if it weren't for the fire escape that clings to the building like a kind hideous of ivy, it would make an excellent picture for a brochure.

I'm startled as a squirrel dashes across the grass not two feet in front of my notebook. I am proud of myself for sitting so still, until I realize that I'm feeling superior to a squirrel. It seems to finally take notice of me and makes a dash for the tree, scrambling up the trunk of the oak. After a moment of rustling up in the branches, I hear something thump the ground next to me.

I blame the squirrel.

the very beginning

"A man should feed his senses with the best that the land affords."

I agree, Mr. Thoreau.